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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789202">Off the Shelf</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/pseuds/makemadej'>makemadej (santamonicayachtclub)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Watcher Entertainment RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Gift Giving, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:21:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,213</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789202</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/pseuds/makemadej</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The push notification on Ryan's phone is too enticing to ignore. </p>
<p>
  <i>You’ve heard of elf on the shelf, now get ready for…</i>
</p>
<p>He sets down his barbells with a groan Shane would definitely make fun of him for, then thumbs open the rest of the message. Attached is—and Ryan doesn’t know what the hell he was expecting—a photo of the Professor on a dresser.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Skeptic Believer Book Club Advent Calendar</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Off the Shelf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Advent day 1! Thanks to Catt for looking this over, Bee for having the idea for an advent fest, and Jess for organizing it 🥰</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Most times, Ryan likes to think he defies stereotypes. But 2020 has been a weird fucking Jumanji game of a year. There are only so many ways to keep himself busy with social interaction as curtailed as it is, to the point where it’s possible he’s becoming a parody of himself. </p>
<p>Which is why he’s halfway through a set of bicep curls, clad in an amalgamation of both Watcher and Lakers merch, Aladdin soundtrack blasting through his Bluetooth speakers, when his phone lights up with a text from Shane.</p>
<p>Ryan spares it a glance, not intending to pick up until he’s done the rest of his reps.</p>
<p>The push notification is too enticing to ignore. </p>
<p><em> You’ve heard of elf on the shelf</em>, <em> now get ready for… </em></p>
<p>He sets down his barbells with a groan Shane would definitely make fun of him for, then thumbs open the rest of the message. Attached is—and Ryan doesn’t know what the hell he was expecting—a photo of the Professor on a dresser.</p>
<p>He’s wearing a crocheted Santa hat of uncertain origin and there’s a tiny present propped between his fuzzy blue hands.</p>
<p>Ryan is perturbed partly because of this, but mostly because it’s <em> his </em>dresser.</p>
<p>He texts Shane back.</p>
<p>
  <em> Uhhhh dude are you in my house??? </em>
</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Ryan fires off a second message, this time to his roommates’ group text. <em> BOLO tall guy looking way too pleased with himself.  </em></p>
<p>Danny is useless.<em> What’s bolo mean? </em></p>
<p><em> Be on lookout, </em> Ryan answers. <em> You are so not stealthy. </em> </p>
<p>Roland, slightly less useless, chimes in, <em> I’m still in Florida man. </em></p>
<p><em>Use</em> <em>protection</em>, Ryan shoots back, wondering when he became the kind of person who goes for comma-based humor. This has to somehow be Shane's fault.</p>
<p>When he goes into his room, the little gift-wrapped box is there, but no Professor. No Shane either, for that matter. Ryan tries to ignore the disappointment that clenches like a fist in the pit of his stomach.</p>
<p>He studies the present for a moment, then films himself opening it, prepared to be socked in the face by a rubber snake or something. At the very least, it’ll make for a good Instagram story. </p>
<p>Inside is a surprisingly innocuous Starbucks gift card for ten dollars.</p>
<p>“Did you...sneak into my house to buy me a coffee?” he demands, and sends the video clip to Shane.</p>
<p>This time, Shane answers immediately. <em> Tis the season, buddy boy! </em></p>
<p><em> Thanks</em>, he texts in return, because theirs isn’t the kind of friendship built on <em> I miss you</em>’s and <em> why didn’t you let me see you</em>’s and <em> please come back</em>’s.</p>
<p>Ryan can’t explain why that makes him ache behind the eyes just a bit, but it does.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It happens again the next day, within thirty minutes of Ryan asking Shane if there’s anything he needs from the Watcher office. </p>
<p>Shane hits him with a photo of the Santa-fied Professor as Ryan is gathering a few sundries from his work desk. Once again, he’s perched on the dresser, this time sitting in what appears to be a jaunty red popcorn bowl. </p>
<p>By the time Ryan rushes back home, there’s nothing left but the bowl. </p>
<p>“I would’ve cleaned my room if I knew you were coming over,” he tells Shane via FaceTime later on. “We could’ve had a popcorn picnic out back.”</p>
<p>He tries to keep the whine out of his voice, but can’t be sure he succeeds. It seems unfair for Shane to be creeping into his territory without doing Ryan the courtesy of seeing him in person.</p>
<p>Onscreen, Shane’s newly shaven face splits into a crooked smile. “Maybe I like the element of surprise.”</p>
<p>“Are you saying you <em> don’t </em>wanna have a picnic with me?”</p>
<p>Shane’s expression somehow softens and grows more guarded at the same time. “No, I’m not saying that.”</p>
<p>On one level, Ryan thinks he gets it. Shane needs to generate a little wholesome holiday mayhem since he isn’t going home. Christmas is a week away and Ryan respects that he needs to occupy himself. He’s got a spare key to Ryan’s place and a tendency to internalize his vulnerabilities or externalize them into quirks. Ryan suspects a little of column A and a little of column B are at work here.</p>
<p>“Good,” he says firmly. “Then let’s have one.”</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The next afternoon, between meetings, he and Shane make picnic plans for Christmas Eve. Ryan’s backyard is tiny, but it’s spacious enough for them to stay one Shane apart. He and Roland already haphazardly threw up some Christmas lights after Thanksgiving, so it’s festive in a cheerfully bedraggled sort of way. </p>
<p>Then he finds a Santa hat ornament, swaps out the headgear on one of his Paddingtons, and gets in his car. </p>
<p>Shane is home a lot more often than him, so Ryan figures the office is a more logical setting for this. He sets Paddington on Shane’s desk chair, paws neatly hugging the mini poinsettia he picked up at Ralph’s on the way over. He frames the shot. And then he texts Shane.</p>
<p><em> Elf on the shelf? How about bear on the chair, motherfucker </em>🤙 </p>
<p><em> You son of a bitch</em>, Shane responds. Somehow, Ryan can hear the inflection as he reads it. </p>
<p><em> Better pick it up before it wilts, big guy, </em> he teases, like he has any idea how poinsettia care works. </p>
<p>However, he’s got a pretty good idea of how Shane care works. That’s what matters most here. </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>After that, it’s like a tiny gift war that’s more about the covert thrill than the actual gifts. </p>
<p>The Professor brings Ryan a bag of Hawaiian chips. They’re delicious. </p>
<p>Paddington brings Shane a set of bootlaces. A little later, Shane sends Ryan a picture of them smartly crisscrossing his ghoul boots.</p>
<p>After the Professor drops off a pine-scented bath bomb, Ryan uses it the same night and doesn’t even mind the fine glittery sheen it leaves on his skin. Not many people are getting up close and personal with him these days, after all. He sort of wishes Shane could see it, though. FaceTime just doesn’t do it justice.</p>
<p>In the morning, he and Paddington deliver a pack of peppermint bark that Ryan may or may not have opened and stolen a piece of first. If Shane minds, he never says so.</p>
<p>Ryan is sort of waiting for them to run into each other mid-heist. The idea plays over and over again in the back of his mind like a Hallmark romcom mixed with a knockoff of the Muppets Christmas Carol. He and Shane bumping into each other on a snow-dusted sidewalk—never mind that they’re social distancing and in LA—both trying to hide the gifts they’re carrying before calling a truce that culminates in Paddington and the Professor kissing under some conveniently situated mistletoe. </p>
<p>Sometimes, if Ryan’s feeling particularly self-indulgent, they aren’t the only ones doing the kissing. </p>
<p>But none of that happens.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“You got tested, right?” Shane asks him abruptly after a virtual check-in about their slate of shows for February.</p>
<p>Ryan blinks. “For my parents? I always do, yeah.” He’s got Christmas Eve blocked off for Shane and their picnic, then a trip to Arcadia the next day. Normally he goes home sooner, but it feels wrong to leave Shane alone with his cat and puppets for the holidays. </p>
<p>Shane looks satisfied. “Cool.” </p>
<p>A flame of hope kindles between Ryan’s lungs. “Did you?”</p>
<p>“You think I’m gonna crash your Christmas Eve and <em> not</em>?”</p>
<p>He says it with the mix of self-effacement and snarkiness that Ryan’s come to expect from Shane, but for some reason it grates against him like sandpaper this time. </p>
<p>“You aren’t crashing anything,” Ryan protests. “This was my idea, dumbass. If I didn’t want to spend Christmas Eve with you, I wouldn’t have bought a bunch of snacks and twisted your arm into helping me eat them.”</p>
<p>Shane is silent for a long moment. “Check your phone,” he says at last.</p>
<p>A Professor on the dresser picture is already popping up on the touchscreen.</p>
<p>“Are you serious?” Ryan says incredulously. </p>
<p>“I came over this morning.” Shane gives him a small grin. “You were out running. Danny’s been texting me whenever you leave the house so I can time my drops.”</p>
<p>Ryan’s jaw drops. “That double-crossing bastard,” he mutters, surveying the photo Shane just sent him. In it, the Professor is reclining on a bag of Hershey kisses. </p>
<p>Across the room, though, his dressertop is both kissless and Professorless. “Did Danny steal these out from under me? Because I don’t see anything.”</p>
<p>If Shane has any light to shed on the subject, he doesn’t deign to share it. “See you tomorrow, pal. Ask me about it then. Happy Christmas Eve Eve.”</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Shane is disconcertingly MIA for most of Christmas Eve.</p>
<p>For the sake of self-quarantining, Ryan doesn’t leave the house again, but he has a very strong urge to bear-on-the-chair him a lump of coal. Instead, he throws himself into picnic prep. It’s nothing fancy: portable firepit, the chairs they use for Top Five Beatdown, and an assortment of snacks from the finest frozen foods sections LA has to offer. He’s pretty pleased with how the loaded potato skins came out, even though he accidentally dumped most of the bacon on one side of them.  </p>
<p>Danny, the traitor, has already left to spend Christmas Eve with his own family, and Ryan feels a little smug about not having to share any food with him.</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope Christmas donuts are a thing. I got some shaped like little jingle bells.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns around to see Shane framed in the sliding doors to the patio. “I let myself in,” he says unnecessarily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What else is new,” Ryan says automatically, trying not to stare. Having Shane this close, lit up in flashes of gold and red from the flickering Christmas lights, is making his knees and brain take on the consistency of pudding. As casually as he can, Ryan leans against the nearest chair. “Good to see ya, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shane shoulders his way into the backyard and plunks a box of donuts onto the patio table. He’s wearing one of their Too Many Spirits sweaters under his jean jacket. His mask is dangling from one ear and his entire face is just...out there for all to see. Ryan's throat is suddenly almost too tight to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So. Did Danny steal my kisses?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mirth tugs at the corners of Shane’s lips. “I certainly hope not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to them? The Professor really pulled a bait and switch on me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We talked it over,” Shane says, with a studied casualness Ryan would have missed entirely if he wasn’t also trying to embody it. “I decided I wanted to give you your kisses in person. If you really want ’em.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a perfectly clear day, but Ryan could swear he feels the air crackle as if it’s full of scarcely restrained lightning. As if the entire world is holding its breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shane’s face twitches, like he’s halfway to a wink or some other over-the-top mugging. Like he’s already giving himself an out, a loophole that’s going to let him play this off as a bit, in case Ryan balks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan pushes away from the chair he’s been leaning on. He can do this on his own, and if he wobbles a little, then Shane’s right there to catch him. He can do this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, you big dork,” he says quietly. “I want it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear it when Shane exhales, swift and sharp. “To be clear, we’re not talking Hershey products, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan is suddenly so bowled over with fondness he can barely put one foot in front of the other. But he manages, and Shane’s there to meet him halfway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nine months without touching, and the second Shane sinks against him, it’s like the breaking of a dam. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan clutches him until his arms ache, until he doesn’t think he’ll ever remember how to stop, but Shane doesn’t utter a word of complaint. Shane holds him back just as hard, both of them a little off kilter and catching each other at the same time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shane. I want it,” Ryan urges again, meeting his eyes without hesitation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Shane’s mouth is on his, softer than snow, sweeter than chocolate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the kind of kiss that whisks the ground out from under his feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no mistletoe, no snowflakes, no gently wafting pine scent. They don't crash into each other like storm fronts. Everything actually smells a little like bacon, which isn’t a bad association for a first kiss, in Ryan’s opinion. They drift smoothly and easily into each other's space, then keep going as if they can mingle their atoms together, and they kiss until the grin overtaking Ryan’s face makes it impossible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” he huffs into the curve of Shane’s neck, “I want to say I can’t believe you wooed me with a puppet, but that’s actually pretty on brand for you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shane’s throat vibrates under his mouth when he laughs. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of admitting that,” Ryan says solemnly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he threads his hands into Shane’s hair to kiss the retort right off his lips, Shane lets him.</span>
</p>
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